Hand of the Maker
by Malhann Hawke
Summary: A sequel to 'Sign of the Maker'. Anders and the champion of Kirkwall build their forces of the Hand, whilst King Alistair and Sebastian discover who is loyal to them and to the old order. All of Thedas will be forced to choose their side in a war that will change everything.
1. Hand of the Maker - prologue

HAND OF THE MAKER - PROLOGUE

"…Then you'll be on your way, Shem."

"Understood. We won't impose on you for a minute longer than is absolutely necessary.

Thank you."

Voices.

Anders could just make out their words as his brain dragged itself reluctantly into consciousness. His head was a wad of cotton, and it was with a great effort that he managed to open his eyes a crack to get his bearings.

The first person who had spoken was marching smartly away, towards red sails and treetops.

Dalish. The thought connected and Anders suddenly understood why he'd been unable to place the smells and sounds around him. He was outside. Far away from the city; from any city from the feel of it. Far away from Kirkwall.

Kirkwall.

Oh, Maker. He'd really done it. Memories hit him in a rush and a hand involuntarily went to his brow, pressing his temples as he squeezed his eyes back shut and fought against the horrible onslaught of emotion. He could see everyone's faces at the moment of the blast. He could hear Sebastian's violent threats. He could almost taste the bitterness and rage and heartache of his shameless need for death. He had wanted it so much, so much. But he could also feel Hawke's arms holding him strong as he had fought and snarled like an animal.

The shame of that stung his eyes as he lay here now, listening to gentle shuffling as the owner of the second voice rummaged through packs and occasionally took a long, drawn breath.

Cortland.

So, Anders the mage/warden/abomination was alive? That wasn't the plan. That had never been the plan. With trepidation he probed the quiet parts of his mind in search of Justice. He felt nothing. The spirit was silent and unresponsive and, as the chantry's demise played over and over in his memories, Anders felt horribly, horribly alone. He shouldn't be alive. He didn't deserve to be alive. It was all he could think.

With a grunt, he made himself sit up and look towards the red haired man who was crouched and muttering a little way away. Even from this angle Cortland looked tired and stern. His shoulders were high and his movements were stiff as he lined up potions and equipment that he was pulling from a large, leather bag. Muscle memory almost moved Anders forward right then. Should he wrap the smaller man in his arms? Nuzzle into his neck? Whisper his unsure thank yous for saving a life he wasn't sure he wanted? Then Anders heard echoes of the words Cortland had spat out back in Kirkwall.

Who said anything about forgiving you…

And his arms instead wrapped around his own shivering form as he continued to let his eyes alone connect with the man who had given him back his life twice, and who probably now wished he'd not bothered that first time.  
I never told him I'd make his life easy. I gave him every opportunity to leave, damnit. I gave him…what? A knife in his hand and the burden of my life on top of everything else?

Anders missed the steady voice of reason that Justice had provided. He missed having an internal sounding board. He willed the spirit to show himself; to assure him that the sacrifices he'd made – and failed to make - had been for a reason.  
The sacrifices he'd forced Hawke to make…

But Justice remained silent.  
His eyes moved back to the man crouched a few feet from him and, with a sudden shock, Anders realised that Cortland was looking at him. A flash of blue peered through unruly red looks as Hawke regarded the mage from over a shoulder.  
"You're awake."  
It was a simple statement of fact, with little emotion to help suggest whether the speaker thought this was a good or bad thing. Absently, Anders remembered waking back in Hawke's estate after he and Sebastian had been trapped below the ground. It felt a long time ago. Cortland's eyes back then had been so sweet, so caring…his lips had spoken soft and comforting words. Now his words sounded cold, his blue eyes were less warm waters and more ice.

And Anders had done this to him.

Cortland turned back to his work a fraction of a moment too quickly for it to feel natural. Anders struggled to breath. It was like the very air here was cloying, despite the fact that it was probably the freshest his lungs had taken in for a long time. He wondered if he still had the courage to die, but feared that the moment had passed.

"Why am I here?"

The rogue shifted a little, the movement in his shoulders suggesting he was now starting to restock the bag.

"Merrill suggested we ask one of the Dalish clans in the area for shelter. This clan has offered us their hospitality for one night only."

"That's not what I mean." Anders shook his head and tried to ignore the way that Cortland's clipped tone cut through him. "…Why am I alive?"

"Because, for once, Justice and I were in agreement on something. You should be pleased."

Anders wasn't. This was suffocating him. The echoes of the rogue's arms that he still felt around him were fast moving from comforting to smothering. The shadows that had always stained the very edges of the man he loved, that had always threatened to rise up in him in darker moments, were now rolling over them both. Anders had to say something, anything to connect to this person again. He scrambled for words; sifted through the myriad questions in his battered mind for the ones that might do the least damage.  
"Where is everyone?"

"Gone. It was safer that way. We'll regroup with…some of them. Tomorrow."

Some of them. Some of them….but not all of them.

"Hawke, I'm sor-"

The apology died in his throat as, in a moment, Anders found himself thrown back to the floor; his arms pinned either side of his head, the wind knocked from him as Hawke's solid frame straddled his own. The rogue's face, leaning in close, was twisted with a fury that made Anders want to close his eyes and hide from it, but he forced them to accept this. He forced himself to see the damage he had done.  
"Don't!" Cortland near bellowed "Don't you dare say you're sorry. You have no right to use those words. They have no place here."  
The pressure on Anders's wrists was painful, but not as painful as what was happening to his heart. Was this man really Cortland Hawke? Was this the man who had saved his life?

"What are you?..."

"Do you understand me, mage? You will not use those words until you have earned the right to use them again."

How many times had Anders felt himself at the mercy of this man? It was more than he could count…yet he had always felt utterly safe at the same time. They had always walked a narrow line in the bedroom, Cortland's possessive streak taking them down paths that shocked them both. But there had always been trust.

Always.

Anders had never felt in danger from the Champion the way he did now. And he had never, never been called 'mage' by his Cortland. Despite it all, despite his hopelessness and despite how little his life mattered right now, he felt a familiar flame of defiance rising up in him.

"Get off of me. Let me go."

Silence was his only answer, as Hawke's eyes bored into what was left of his soul. He tried to move his arms, but Cortland pushed down harder. He tried to move his legs, but Cortland's knee pushed into his hip and made him cry out instead.

"Get off of me, I said! Hawke!"

His wrists flexed and grew hot and he watched Cortland's face wince a little as controlled curls of fire licked at the places where their flesh joined. The hesitation was all Anders needed to push forwards and throw the rogue back with a shout. Cortland's cat-like reflexes stopped him from falling, and he stopped on one knee, hurt creeping in and mixing with the fury in his eyes. Anders staggered to his feet, rubbing at his wrists, his chest heaving. He had never, ever needed to be scared of Cortland. He had never, ever been on the receiving end of the raw power packed into that small frame. He had never been on the wrong side of that 'click' Cortland used to talk about.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You want to kill me…well, go ahead! You deserve it."

Blue eyes gleamed. They were so, so good at concealing their secrets. Anders could only guess as to what was going on behind them until the words that flew from the rogue helped him to understand.

"You destroyed everything! You took everything I had left; everything I had built. You watched Kirkwall burn and you expected me to carry the ashes. You even expected me to…to…" The rogue's lips moved a few more times but produced no sound, his anger clearly making it hard even to form words.

Anders swallowed, his own anger fuelling words that took him by surprise "I did what I always said I would do! I said there was no one in Kirkwall I wouldn't kill to see mages freed. I said I would break your heart. So you hate me now, is that it? So…what? You wanted to keep me alive so that you could show me just how much? Why the hell did you save me?"

There was a flash, a moment of hesitation in those eyes. "I don't…I don't know yet."

That hurt. It hurt so much that Anders felt his own anger falter as something closer to despair took its place. His voice dropped to a hushed murmer as he asked "Do you want to kill me, Hawke? It's your right."

"I…don't know that yet either."

Cortland's head dropped, his expression obscured as his shoulders shook with the strain he was under. But Anders could not muster sympathy easily. Whatever fragile walls Cortland had built in the apostate when he spared his life in Kirkwall were straining against a siege of emotions. Like too many colours, they could only form black, leaving him feeling something numb and nameless.

"Great. That's great Hawke. Well, I'll just wait here in purgatory while you make up your mind."

Turning and walking away from the little clearing and towards a thicker patch of trees, Anders tried to ignore the howl he heard behind him; tried to ignore the sounds of smashing glass and fists on wood. He didn't acknowledge the few scattered elves, wide-eyed and confused, who watched him walk. He didn't see the way the odd one would bow their head to him as he passed. He could only focus on moving one foot at a time and on feeling the blood that pulsed through his veins, defying his every wish by doing so. If he could end his life with a thought, he would do it. But his life was not his own to take. It was Cortland's.

And he would wait.


	2. Cortland's Letter

Anders,

Back when the world changed, when I told you 'I know', it was because I did.

I knew that you didn't want to be alive anymore; that you wanted it to end. But it didn't end, did it? You're still here and it's partly my fault, and I'm glad. I'm glad to be hated for this.

You should know that there was a time in my life when I felt the same. I wanted it all to end. I had just watched my mother die in my arms because I had been too stupid and too slow to save her, you may remember the day. I was sat alone that evening considering my failure: Remembering my sister's broken body after I had guided us straight into the ogre that had taken her life; remembering my brother's face as he had been removed from my side and into the shambles of an existence that I had forced upon him. I didn't want to let anyone else down. I couldn't stand the burden. I had been considering how best to die when you walked in.

You saved me then, Anders. You carefully pulled me back and tethered me to this world, as surely as you did Justice and you never even knew it. I knew then that I had grown from merely wanting you to needing you…I was possessed by you and you had no idea.

Instead, you waited until I couldn't so much as breathe without you in my life and then you threatened to remove yourself from it. You even asked me to be the one to do it; to be the one to remove the very thing that had kept me tied to this existence. By your actions you had ensured that you were all I had left in this world, and then you asked me to sever you from it.

And I hate you and I love you and I need you and I fear you, and I am unable even to say these words to your face because I don't know how to look at you…but I know even less how to let you go.

You made an abomination out of me, Anders, and you don't even know it.

I'm not a man of meaningful words; you know that…so I'll reach my point. We are bound, Anders, as surely as you and Justice. If you truly want to die, I will take your life. But know that, if I did, I would be dead before your eyes close.

Cortland Hawke


	3. Hand of the Maker chapter 1

It was dark by the time Cortland found the courage to seek Anders out, and by the time he felt calm and rational enough to do so.

The Dalish scout who had carried Hawke's letter hours earlier had refrained from commenting on the mage's state of mind on receiving the missive, and so Cortland had little idea of what to expect from the man when he found him.

As he neared the river running alongside the small encampment, and as he passed a handful of expectant tribe members who had taken it upon themselves to guard Anders's retreat, Cortland let the strength of his own decision flood through his body and tried to push any pre-notions from his mind. He had fought his memories, his anger, his fears for too long. It was time to move on, one way or another, and it fell to Anders to tell him how. See how the bastard liked it this way around, damn his eyes. The mage deserved whatever torture that letter had inflicted upon him…  
Cortland shivered, gave his upper arms a rub, and checked once more that his twin blades were firmly in place at his back.

Whatever Anders's decision, he was ready for it. Whatever was left between them was for another time…should they live to see it.

What he found at the river's edge was a hunched figure on a log, gazing out at the dark waters in a manner all too reminiscent of that fateful moment when the world had changed. Suddenly Cortland was staring at those same shoulders just as he had when Kirkwall had burned around them. Only this time they both knew what was coming.

"You read my letter?", he asked.

"I read it."

"And?"

"And you're a manipulative bastard, Hawke."

"I learned from the best."

Anger from Anders he could deal with. Anger felt good. Anything but that blank, dead stare he had seen on the mage earlier in the camp; anything but the word 'sorry' falling from those lips. Cortland's breath hitched as Anders turned slowly and stood to his full height, the letter falling in a crumpled ball from his right hand. His hair fell loosely around his face. His features were gaunt, haunted; his eyes red-rimmed and with a glassy sheen. But the expression…the expression contrasted so vividly with the resigned sadness of those features that it rooted Cortland to the spot where he stood. It was fire and hatred; venom and ice. He knew it for what it was because he had worn it himself since the chantry's demise.

"I need a decision from you, Anders."

He saw a flash in those amber eyes, a spark in the mage at hearing his own name that threatened to melt the defences Cortland had built up inside of himself. Then the eyes grew sad as they accepted and understood what was being asked. Hawke stepped forward, closer to the body that he had held in his arms so many times. It was a body that had been his once. He breathed in its closeness and absorbed its scent, drinking in every detail of that face as he slowly and carefully drew his blades. The first he placed at Anders's throat, and the mage didn't flinch; only glared back at Cortland from eyes that seemed to be doing some drinking in of their own. The other he placed at his own throat, feeling something close to relief as the cold steel made contact with his skin. An ending or a beginning, either way he'd know now. He was calm as he spoke. A calm born from knowing the choice was out of his hands.

"Do you choose life or death? I will gladly join you in either, but I can't watch you suspended between the two. Not any more."

Anders let his eyes flick briefly from Cortland's face to the second blade. With a husky voice and an attempt at a smile he said "You realise I only need a moment to throw that blade at your neck aside?"

Cortland levelled a gaze "Maybe. But it would be pretty hard to do it again once you're dead, and I thought you might rather we go together."  
At that Anders's eyes changed and grew darker still, his brow furrowing into a frown as he spat out "Damnit, Hawke, are you serious about this?"

"I have made my decision, Anders. I have come to terms with it and I am ready. Now I need yours. So choose. Live with me or die with me, I have nothing else."

"I can't just…"

"Choose!"

For several moments Anders held Cortland's gaze as his eyes screamed out all of the things his mouth could not make itself say. His jaw locked and released as emotions scrambled for dominance on his features. Finally and slowly, he brought a shaking hand to the blade at his throat. He closed long, white fingers around Cortland's own grip and slowly, slowly lowered it down, eyes closing as he whispered the words "We truly are bound, you and I. And I'm sorry for you. I would never, never allow someone like you to die for someone like me."

Cortland felt a breeze move his hair. His nose caught the hint of blossom in the trees. His ears heard the world begin to spin again. He was alive. For better or worse, he was alive. He wasn't sure at what point he had closed his eyes, but when he opened them now he saw that Anders was crying. The mage scrunched his eyes closed and bowed his head, both hands now enveloping Hawke's own, and Cortland felt hot tears splash his skin as he lowered the second blade in silence.

"You win. What time I have left on this world I pledge to you, Hawke." In a beat, the eyes opened again and penetrated, that fire and ice returning "I am yours. In hatred and in love, I am yours. I always was."

Before Cortland could respond, an impatient Dalish scout pushed through the trees, bowing low towards the pair in a gesture that Anders could not have failed to see.

"The people would hear the Hand's words. How long will they wait?"

Cortland dismissed the lad with a low wave, stating "A little more time, but soon now."

With a hesitant nod, the scout turned and left the clearing, and Hawke watched the mage opposite him allow a question to form on his face before it even reached his lips.

"What did he call you?"

"Not me." Cortland shook his head and pulled his hand away sharply. "Come on. It's time for you to see what you changed the world into."

Dumbly, Anders followed Cortland out of the clearing and into the Dalish camp.

Anders looked so small up there, Varric considered; one, solitary, scruffy man in front of hundreds of hopeful and expectant faces. His blond head was lowered and his neck stiff as his mind presumably took in the scene before him, absorbing the gravity of what he had begun.

Beside him, Varric was aware of Cortland Hawke standing stock-still. The Champion's face was stone, arms folded and eyes set solely on the solitary mage as if Anders were about to speak to an audience of one and one alone. Varric breathed deeply and hoped that the revolutionary's words would be enough not only to appease the crowd, but to convince Hawke that living had been the right choice. The dwarf stole a nervous glance towards Fenris. Another critical audience member, though one whose eyes had lost their murderous gaze, and this was a step forward, surely. The three of them waited along with the crowd, as the man in the feathered coat flexed and unflexed his hands, and Varric's heart went out to the courageous fool.

"I've…never given a speech before."  
It was a small opening line. Not strong and hardly ground-moving, and yet those few words felt like they were crackling with raw power for the response they received. Varric had thought the crowd silent before, but as Anders's faltering first words reached out to all of them, the hush became almost ethereal.  
"Truth be told, I probably never would have been allowed to."  
Anders's chin lifted, and as he looked for what seemed the first time at his audience, Varric breathed in and held that breath without realising it. The mage's expression was unlike anything the dwarf had seen before. That hopelessness he'd seen just minutes earlier seemed to have blossomed into something harder, stronger. Fear rode high, but it seemed to have been backed up by defiance, and a small flicker of hope was kindled in Varric's heart.

"You see, for all my life, if I opened my mouth to speak, it was closed for me. If I raised my hands to reach, then they were bound. And if I dared to be true to myself…this world would threaten to remove my very dreams from me."

Ander's licked his lips and Varric saw his eyes flick towards them momentarily. Not towards Varric, but towards the auburn-haired statue next to him. Then those eyes were back to the crowd at large before the blond head dropped. Before him, slaves and freaks and outcasts watched as the mage's long fingers slowly drew themselves into fists. "Like all of you, I have learned to be quiet and speak only in whispers. But several days ago, as you'll know…I raised my voice. And I used words that they could not silence and I used hands that they could not bind. Believe me, I am not proud for the lives that I took, but I cannot regret my action. I DO not regret my action."

Ander's eyes raised back towards the crowd, the expectant hush almost unbearable, an unseen coil winding ever tighter around them all as the mage spoke. Varric could only watch, entraced, as this man who he had thought he'd known weaved a spell over all of them, his own determination seeming to grow with every syllable uttered. "Because for too long the underdogs of Thedas have rolled over at the feet of their masters. For too long, this world has been built on the backs of slaves. On stolen lands. On threats and on warped justice. Not so long ago, I raised my voice and expected to be dead by the time the echoes had faded. But, looking at you all now, I can see that from this day on, Thedas has a chance to change: From this day on, we take back our pride, our lands, our families and our dreams. From this day on we have no masters. From this day on the underdogs of Thedas will bite back!"

The forest around Varric erupted into sound, and he was powerless to resist the urge, the need to erupt right along with it. Voices shouted as arms were waved and bodies danced and weaved around each other. Cries of 'Anders, Anders, Anders' mixed with 'the Hand, the Hand, the Hand' and Varric's heart felt that it may well explode. Anders was strong. So much stronger than any of them had realised. Well, stronger than all but one of them had realised, at least.

In a moment, the dwarf's eyes found Hawke. The rogue was rooted to the spot, his posture unchanged. His eyes had not left his former lover for the duration of the speech. His expression had hardly changed and he continued to gaze steadily at the mage as the crowds plucked at their new leader's coat, touched his sleeves, stroked his hair; Anders himself panting and laughing and seemingly unable to grasp the enormity of what he himself had achieved. At a glance, the champion seemed to take all of this in, unmoved. But as Varric looked more closely at the red-head, he saw the twitching jaw, the flaring nostrils and, perhaps more importantly, the slow tears that coursed the man's cheeks. And beside Hawke, Fenris stared, open-mouthed at the heaving and cheering crowd, his eyes burning with the same fire that all of them present could now feel rising in their souls.

They were going to war.

And just for this night, none of them would consider the friends, allies and lovers who would oppose them. Just for this night they would focus on the prize.

Freedom.


	4. Hand of the Maker - chapter 2

As one more, exhausted shout echoed around the keep's walls, Leliana closed her eyes and prayed quietly for the man who had uttered it to feel some peace again. It had been a long few days, with each messenger to arrive at Denerim's gates bringing yet worse news. Red wine ran in rivulets around grey stone, and Alistair had apparently gone long past caring. A pageboy appeared with a new goblet for the King, and Leliana shook her head gently and ushered the lad out, still burdened. Enough wine had been spilled today.

Mustering her own calm, the bard approached where Alistair sat, head in his hands, behind a desk that was covered with papers, letters, notices. The first blows of any war had always been struck with paper and ink; long before any swords were swung. Against the wall, Bann Teagan stood grimly, watching the spectacle with a look of sadness, sympathy and self-facing anger. The walls of Denerim felt cold and lifeless. With Alistair as he was, the place had lost its warmth, somehow. And surely it couldn't be long before that cold reached out to the rest of Ferelden.

Their golden King had lost his splendour.

"Alistair, come." Leliana's made her voice as soothing and as gentle as she could as she let a hand rest on the slumped King's shoulder. Tense. Hard. It carried so much more than they'd planned. "We need you."

"I can't possibly imagine why." Where the same words may well have come from her friend years before in a childish tone, they were said now with hard truth. The difference chilled her. "I've not done such a good job so far, have I?"

"Cullen is in place as Knight Commander in Kirkwall. He is able and loyal. We must focus on…"

"And what is left for him to command over, exactly? Why don't you remind me again?" Her hand was thrown off as the rage bubbled painfully up again. Alistair stood, his height imposing in the small stone-walled chamber, gesturing passionately toward the letter than he'd just received from their newest playing piece. "He was meant to be in place because Meredith was transferred; not because she was dead! He says he has had to restore his ranks with force. And what the hell is he supposed to keep order over now? A tribe of renegade mages stumbling blindly through Kirkwall's ashes? It's over, Leliana! We failed. I failed. My judgement failed us all. It sure as hell failed Kirkwall. I…"

Another shout and papers flew and fluttered around the desk. Teagan's eyes closed as if he could pretend this wasn't happening, and Leliana fought to keep what was left in the room from breaking. "Alistair! Stop! No one's pretending things didn't get out of hand. I understand more than most how painful what happened in Kirkwall is! We…we were all betrayed. But you are our King. Darkness is coming and without you, we're lost."

The anger faded a little as Alistair drew a breath and glanced at Leliana over his shoulder. Oh, how much she wanted to soothe him, but the damage done to him couldn't be soothed by her. She knew that. He offered her a thin smile - the smallest sign of hope, but a sign none-the-less. "You always had a silver tongue, Leliana. And you were always such a good liar." He sighed, deep and heavy, but he seemed to be taking in the carnage around the room with new eyes, at least. He rubbed a stubbled chin and turned, leaning heavily against the wine-stained wall. Is there any better news in that lot?"

Leliana reached for the letter she'd been bringing to him. "Aveline Vallen pledges her loyalty and her restored guard to you. She awaits word from 'her King'"

"Aveline. I remember her. She does me an honour. Have Cullen report to her for now. She knows more about Kirkwall's streets than Cullen will have seen behind a templar shield, I'm sure. They'll work well together. What news from Sebastian?"

Teagen was the one to sift through the papers now, crouching and retrieving a sheet adorned with the seal of Starkhaven. "He met with no resistance, it seems. He invites your majesty to attend his coronation three days from now."

Another smile tugged at Alistair's lips. "I'm not surprised. He'll do well. Starkhaven needed him more than he could have realised." A dark frown reclaimed his expression as he swept his gaze over papers and wine stains. "Hell, I wouldn't mind taking some orders myself right about now. Either of you fancy taking charge?"

"Not for the world." Teagan smiled as he handed a neatly stacked set of papers to his nephew, and Leliana felt something in the room lift in the wake of Alistair's attempted humour. It was a step forward. "You've mourned enough. We all have. Now we need to turn our attention forward. We must strengthen our allegiances."

The King took the bundle of papers, his hands shaking less now as he scanned their contents. Leliana nodded, glad of the momentum as she stepped forward. "The divine is ready to act, Alistair. The events in Kirkwall have brought her firmly to your side. Where our previous plans may have left her neutral, now she's…"

"Out for revenge?" Alistair's expression was dour, and Leliana wondered that they'd all once questioned the man's intelligence and insight. "Hardly the motive I'd have hoped for. I want allies by my side because they believe in me, not because they want to get the boot in with my enemies."

His face soured at the word 'enemies', as if he was remembering again the people who had suddenly adopted the mantle. Leliana balked, but smiled. "The divine is not one for revenge. But she will cleanse where it is needed. And she knows the path of the righteous. She is on your side, Alistair, do not question why."

His nod was small, his jaw set. Alistair's own relationship with the chantry was a turbulent one. The Divine may not be an ally he would have sought out, but Leliana was glad in her heart that he had such a force on his side. He was a better man that he believed himself to be in this moment, and the Divine knew people's hearts better than any.

Alistair continued to sift through the papers. "Any news from Zevran?"

"Your welcoming fanfare could use some work. That is the news from Zevran." The air in the room changed, and Leliana span, along with Teagan, to see the owner of the unmistakeable accent that had spoken those words. He looked travel-weary, perhaps more than she'd ever seen him before, but Zevran wore his almost unshakeable smile and walked with the same swagger as ever as he entered the chamber. "And you seem to have wasted a good deal of wine in my absence, oh King."

"Zevran." Alistair's expression was caught between the seriousness of the moment and the joy of seeing a friend returned as he moved from the desk to clap the elf on the shoulders. "If I'd known you were so close already I'd have spared the walls. It's good to see you back."

There was a slip in Zevran's smile then. A momentary lapse that had Leliana's brows knitting. She watched the pair; watched Zevran return the King's embrace, and then watched as the assassin stepped back out of it again. If Alistair had noticed the change, he ignored it, instead walking back to his desk and sitting on the edge of it with a feigned humour that had been missing for days. "Well?"

"Well." Zevran didn't approach the desk, but he smiled at Leliana and then at Teagan before he nodded in a shallow bow to the man in front of him. "The apostate is alive."

Silence hung, stale, until Alistair's eyes narrowed. Was a small part of him relieved? Leliana was finding it hard to read the muddle of emotions in front of her any more. "He has Oghren's luck. How did he escape you?"

Zevran's silence answered for them all. And Leliana felt her heart sink a little on the King's behalf. There was no bubbling anger here, however. Just a strange, sad quiet as Alistair understood. "Zev…"

"I came to you because you have been a good friend." Zevran bowed, lower this time, as if the friend in front of him deserved more reverence than the King. "I could not walk away without showing you this much respect."

"But." Alistair's expression was grim; the question rhetorical.

"But, I didn't try to kill him, no. I watched, as you instructed. I watched it all. And I followed when he and the Champion-"

"Hawke."

"When he and Hawke left Kirkwall." Now Zevran took a step forward. And Leliana found her eyes watching his blades, she knew what they could do. They all did. She didn't like the feeling that she may ever have to cross them. "And Alistair, I saw something I could not have dreamed. The world will change. It will really, honestly change. What he brings is a new order. And I have been a disappointed slave to old hierarchies for too long."

Leliana could stay silent no more. With a tight throat she stepped closer. "You would turn your back on our history? On our heritage? And what of the stability we need right now? Are you forgetting what he did? How many died?"

"Your history, your heritage. Not mine. And as to those who died: I was a crow. You think I keep track of every death I see? I've seen so many…and most have been pointless."

"Those in Kirkwall were equally pointless." Teagan's voice this time. Stern, hard. "You know how hard we have worked, Zevran. You know how hard Alistair has fought to make a better world. A ready world. One that wouldn't be built on the deaths of…"

Alistair's hand silenced the Bann. For a moment Leliana feared they would lose him again, but his eyes looked at Zevran with an infinite sadness, not anger. Not despair. There was strength there still. "You've made your choice, haven't you."

Zevran mirrored the sadness, and Leliana wanted to shake them both. She wanted to be back at the campfire years ago; when they had all first joined together to fight the blight. What a team they had been. She wished Elissa were here and not at the Warden's keep. But they all had their part to play, the Hero of Ferelden was no exception.

"I have."

"Then nothing we can say will change your mind."

"No. But I had hoped, that maybe…you might…" It was the closest to faltering that Leliana had ever seen the smiling rogue. His lips sealed firmly again as Alistair shook his head.

"You know me, Zevran. I don't see death as the sport that you see it to be. It should be no more than an occasional necessity. Whatever the warped noble intentions, the mass murder of innocents is not a strong foundation for this new world that you see coming. I don't believe that change requires our history to be torn down. I didn't ask to be King, you know that, but I do believe that a good ruler can bring peace. We all saw the stability that Dumar brought to Kirkwall, and the damage done when we lost him. And as long as I draw breath I will fight to see that any new world we build is one born from past lessons learned. From trust and justice. Hope. Not terrorism. Not fear."

"And I hope that works for you. But, we will all stand where we believe we belong." Zevran's smile was a slow and sad one and Leliana's heart was breaking. Teagan looked on in stunned silence as the assassin made once last, low, bow and turned towards the door. "I have appreciated your friendship. More than I can say. All of you. I pray we do not meet in battle."

"Battle?" Teagan sneered, his emotions frayed. "You know nothing of battle. Your battles are fought in shadows. We would never know, would we?"

"As you say. Well then."

The heavy door closed behind blond hair, and Leliana let her eyes move to where Alistair still stood. Hard. Solid. Unbroken. "Alistair?"

"My allies will come to me because they believe in me, Leliana. Not because we force them. Let him go. Maker willing, he'll return when we prove ourselves worthy of him."

Leliana nodded in wonder as her King turned back to his papers. Alistair Theirin would ever be a surprise to her. At his lowest points he could find some strength out of nothing. Where Leliana herself felt Zevran's departure like a stab in her chest, Alistair seemed to have used it somehow. He looked as though he had more purpose now, more fire. She hoped it was enough.

He reached for Cullen's letter again, jabbing a finger at the thing with a new determination. "Summon Cullen's new Knight Captain. I want to speak with him."

"His name?" Teagan moved unquestioningly to the door, apparently glad to have an order to follow.

"Hawke. Carver Hawke."


	5. Hand of the Maker - chapter 3

The sky above Starkhaven was a pale blue. The mountains that lined the vista from the central towers were snow-capped and jagged; a defensible wall that had long served the citizens who lived in their shadows. It struck Sebastian Vael that, for all that he'd missed the view, he found he missed more the walls and stones of Kirkwall. Not for the city itself, and certainly not for any sentimental attachment to the place or what it had become, but for the security of blind corners. The comfort of narrow alleys. The openness of his home City State felt somehow daunting now.

And in another day, it truly would be his. Prince of Starkhaven not just in name, but in role. It had all felt a little too easy. He had arrived tired, weary and with a small band of his family's old loyals; still reeling over the events that had forced him to leave Kirkwall and his new allies behind. The gates had been opened to them, word of his arrival apparently travelling far faster than their horses, and the members of Goran Vael's government had lined the path before him. There had been no dark words and no challengers. There had instead been a feast and confetti and, Sebastian's head still spinning from the sudden noise and unexpected welcome, he had been pulled aside by his cousin. Goran had looked pale and worn. Tired. He had clapped Sebastian on the shoulders warmly, thanking him for coming back. Actually thanking him. Goran wanted to go back to his paintings, his poems, his cats. He wasn't and had never been a leader. Now Sebastian was here, now Starkhaven could regain some of what it had lost under the Harrimann rebellion.

It had all been too easy. So easy.

How much, Sebastian wondered, had been paved for him by King Alistair.  
And how much, he thought now as he looked to those pale blue skies, had been paved for him by someone else.

He hadn't realised how tightly he'd been gripping the balcony's railings until he tried to move his hands and felt the muscles groan. They were white. He had failed in so much. He had tried to be a good man, a true man, to be what the Maker might have wanted. But in the end it had meant nothing. He had been unwanted as a priest, unneeded as a prophet. Whether Anders had been ordained to do what he had done by a higher cause, or whether he had been only the catalyst in the sign Sebastian had waited for, both paths could only have brought Sebastian here. Back where he began. Chosen or unchosen, he would fight and he would kill he would wreak vengeance.  
And it seemed he would do it without the friends he had grown to know over seven long years in Kirkwall. Some were scattered among Alistair's territory, still loyal but distant. Some were now his enemies, happy to stand by the side of someone who had betrayed them all and murdered Sebastian's last bastion of hope in cold blood. He couldn't deny the stab he felt just thinking of them. Thinking about Cortland's face as he'd refused to take the life Elthina's death demanded. Thinking about Anders himself; of the mage who'd once cried, shaking in Sebastian's arms; who had once saved his life under a rockslide; who he'd learned to respect, and who had ultimately hurt Sebastian more than any Harrimann or Vael had ever been able to. His head lowered, brow resting on the hands that clasped each other on the cold concrete of the balcony's surface. Old habits died hard, it seemed. But this wasn't a prayer.

This wasn't anything close to a prayer.

Anders would die by his hand. He had made that promise. And Sebastian couldn't care less if the Maker wanted it or not.

The knock at his chamber door pulled him from dark thoughts and, for just a moment, he expected to greet Fenris, Varric, any of them. Someone come to invite him to the Hanged Man. Cortland come to request his skills. Instead, when he opened the door, all he saw was a small and unassuming palace worker. She looked perhaps the age his mother had been when he'd seen her last. She smiled sweetly at him and offered a small courtesy. "Prince Vael? I…you look better today. You slept well?"

"I did. Thank you. Anya, was it? Your name?"

"Aye, sire. I'm glad you'd remember." She stared at him with nothing less than fascination. Had Anya been alive when he'd been banished to the chantry, he wondered? How different he must appear now to the drunken fool of a youth who'd embarrassed his family back then.

"What can I help you with, Anya?"

"Oh!" She shook herself and nodded apologetically. "Forgive me, I…you have a visitor, sire."

Sebastian groaned quietly, then caught himself and ran a hand through his hair. "I told the council I'd call a gathering this afternoon. Have them wait on my word, would you?"

"Oh, this isn't a councillor, sire. It's…she says she's a friend. She insisted I bring her to you and…"

"A friend?" A small spark of interest lit his soul. Someone he knew? Someone from before? Who was left who had not been killed or who he had not betrayed or scammed out of gambling coin? Again he felt a longing for the dirty walls of Kirkwall, for friends who didn't call him Sire.

"Well, that's the nicest way I could think to put it anyway." The unmistakeable voice came from a figure stood a few paces down the hallway, wrapped head to toe in a travelling cloak, face barely visible behind a fur-lined hood.

Anya jumped, as shocked at the new voice as Sebastian, it seemed. "I said to wait in the entrance hall! Did the guards not stop you entering the residential quarters?"

"Well, they tried." The cloaked figure let out a small laugh and patted Anya's shoulder in a friendly manner before turning her attention back to Sebastian. "Are you going to have me thrown out of the palace or can I come in, sweet thing?"

* * *

"He's what?" Cortland was pacing the floor of a large tent the Dalish had erected in the centre of their camp. Its colourful floor coverings and incense could do nothing to stave off his increasingly dark mood today, however. "My brother?"

"We can't be entirely surprised." Anders was seated at the head of the long table around which the tent stood. "Alistair's not a fool. He'll use what he has. And Carver is…well, he's Carver."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cortland stopped pacing and turned, his arms folded as he surveyed the people around the table.

"It means exactly what it means, Hawke." Varric chimed in this time, hands behind his head as he managed to inject a casual tone even here. "Look at the reaction he's got from you from you even just knowing your brother's been summoned."

"We should have sent him word sooner. Brought him here before Ferelden's King had a chance to sway his opinion." Fenris poured over papers, one long-fingered hand to his brow.

"You assume he'd have even listened to us." Anders interjected, his own tone brash. The thin bonds of newfound alliance between himself and the elf didn't take much to be strained. "Maybe he considered you a friend, Fenris, but somehow I doubt I could have won him over. He and Cullen were thick as thieves even before Meredith fell."

"Neither of you would have had to win him over. He's my brother. I don't need to win him over at all, damnit, he's my brother!" Cortland slumped angrily into the chair at the furthest end of the table from Anders and silence fell over the council of the Hand for a moment or so.

The pause was broken by the Antivan accent of their newest ally. "I rather think, my friend, that him being your brother is exactly why Alistair chose him. Alistair doesn't put much weight in the rank of Knight Captain of the templars, after all, though their numbers will always be a boon. But, brother of the Champion of Kirkwall? That holds far more water."

Zevran Arainai, once of the Antivan crows, once companion to the Hero of Ferelden, hero of the fifth blight, was something of a legend amongst the group. He had ridden up to the camp's exterior the night before and endured questioning and solitary confinement before their Dalish hosts had finally deemed him loyal to the Hand's cause. Merrill had taken a little more convincing, and Zevran had even obliged her in her own tests – Cortland didn't want to know what they were – before she finally conceded her trust in him. He had abandoned Alistair and the Hero in favour of Anders's cause, or in favour of the cause that Anders had been made the figurehead of, at least. In favour of the new world. Cortland couldn't fathom why the elf had chosen them instead of being a lone wolf, perhaps the crows had made Zevran more dependent on company than he'd realised, but he hadn't wasted any time in placing Zevran firmly within their central command. He was more than an ally. He was an asset. Cortland narrowed his eyes, listening to Zevran's words. "Alistair is a clever and charming man. Don't underestimate him or his ability to win the hearts of people."

"You're talking about my brother." Cortland repeated. "Carver and I share blood. We've grown up together. He…"

"Loved living in your shadow?" Varric pursed his lips as he said the words, his eyebrows raising. Around the table, several people nodded in quiet understanding, and Cortland felt a pang of something that hurt. Carver wouldn't turn on them, would he? Not joining their cause was very different from actively fighting it.

"Give the kid a chance." Another elf spoke up from the corner of the tent. Tallis seemed to prefer sitting on the floor than at the table. "You're all talking like he'd turn in a moment. Have some faith in him. This King Alistair guy is just a man. One conversation with him isn't going to incite some sort of blood feud in Carver, right? I met him once. I liked him. I know a turncoat when I see one and he didn't look the sort." She continued to fletch arrows as she spoke, shards of wood falling around her onto the coloured rugs.

Cortland smiled at her, nodding with a small glimmer of hope. "Tallis is right. I'm assuming too much. We all are. He's only been summoned. That's all. He's a templar, after all. And second to Cullen. It's hardly that unusual that he be called in."

"His being a templar is one of the bits that worries me the most." Anders mused, his head resting on one hand as he traced the outline of landmasses on the map before him with the other.

"This isn't just about magic any more, Anders." Fenris warned. "If you believed that no templar has ever felt oppressed or failed by the system, you're a fool."

"And how long was he aware of your clinic in Kirkwall for, exactly? Or that Cullen chap too, for that matter?" Merrill placed a gentle hand on Anders's outstretched arm, her face hopeful where the others were merely neutral. And Cortland remembered how close she and his brother had seemed. "Carver never turned you in, Anders. He never turned me in. We should all trust him, shouldn't we, Hawke."

The expression she turned to him was one he found it hard to challenge, and her words were words he wanted to believe in. So Cortland shrugged and nodded and smiled. "Yes. Yes, we should. You're absolutely right."

"Forgive me if I reserve my right to be wary." Anders warned, but he stood and the air seemed lighter. "We need food. And drink. We've been cooped up in the woods for too long."

"Missing Kirkwall?" The slight growl behind Fenris's voice was unmistakeable, and it apparently hit Anders where it had been intended, the hurt and emotion instantly visible on the mage's face and a hush falling in the tent.

Two followers who'd been allowed to listen in on the discussion were instantly up and out of their chairs in defence of the Hand, but Anders stopped them with a gentle expression. He swallowed, turned to Fenris and said words that held that emotion his face described. "Yes. I miss it. And if there'd been any other way…"

Fenris took his turn now to look a little guilty. He lowered his head in apology and Anders patted his shoulder in silent acceptance of it. It was a sight Cortland hadn't quite got used to yet, but it was one that boded well for them all. They were all in this together now. On the same side; as surprised as some of them had been to realise it. He hoped his brother felt the same.

"Excuse me for interrupting, councilmen." A Dalish elf had parted the flaps that counted as a door to the tent, apparently filled with pride for the words he was about to impart. "We have another group of recruits at the gates asking to join the Hand in building the new world. One of them says you may know of him? A mage. Says his name is Jowan."

Anders and Zevran raised their eyebrows almost in synch at the news, but Cortland couldn't quite work out if it was in a good or a bad way.

* * *

"Isabela." Sebastian's voice faltered in a way that left Isabela unsure until he continued with "Maker, I…it's good to see you."

She smiled broadly then, as the door was closed dutifully behind them. "I could say the same about you, my Prince." And it was good, so good to see him. Better than she'd convinced herself it would be during the long journey to get here. She had considered so many times turning back. She'd felt an awful sense of déjà vu; like she was fleeing again with the Qunari tome in her hands, only this time what she held in her hands was only her own loyalty and a hundred questions about where it should lie. She had to respect what Anders had done. She had to respect how Cortland had handled it. She had to respect what Alistair had tried to do. But she hadn't been able, during restless nights in those early days after Kirkwall, to shake the knowledge of where the largest portion of her respect lay. Sebastian Vael had shone that day. His hurt and his rage and his beauty in the face of it had captured her entirely. He had walked from that place with no demands made of anyone. He hadn't expected anything. He had made his threats to the man who'd destroyed his home and his life, and he had simply left. Unwilling to make the killing blow he had so obviously desired, because it had not been his place in that moment. He had walked away expecting to be alone and not once had he looked back as he departed to lay the duty of friendship on any of them.

But Isabela had felt it. She had felt it keenly.

And now she was here. And Sebastian was real and smiling openly at her, and standing in a beautiful palace with guards and workers and crowds of civilians outside ready to cheer his coronation as Prince. It was all real and Isabela felt like she'd opened the pages of a book to be here. The book became even more real as suddenly he was close, and then his arms were around her. The same strength that she had once held back from the flames of Kirkwall's chantry was now wrapped around her. Warm and solid. His lips were close to her ear, speaking words that took her by surprise, with that voice that she'd missed so much.

"You saved my life. I didn't think I'd ever get a chance to thank you. You saved me, Isabela."

And as she stroked his hair and absorbed his closeness, as she drank in his sincerity, Isabela felt something she'd only ever felt once before; when she had walked back into Kirkwall with that damned tome.

Isabela knew she'd made the right choice.


End file.
